


Games for the risks you never take

by IronShiba (wegglebots)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Doropetra, Dorothea and Edelgard need to up their game, Edeleth, F/F, Fluff, Is it fluff though?, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Useless Gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wegglebots/pseuds/IronShiba
Summary: Dorothea knows what she’s doing. Only, she really doesn’t. Especially when things came to Petra. Beautiful, kind, strong Petra.Edelgard is one to do her best. In everything. And she’ll be damned if she doesn’t get her professor to praise her just a little more.(Short two-part fic where both Dorothea and Edelgard are Dumb Gays Trying to Impress Their Crushes. Doropetra and Edeleth fic.)
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 17
Kudos: 246





	1. Dorothea

Dorothea sits before a table. On the table, a dagger, its tip jabbed into the wooden surface. In front of Dorothea is a dagger and a table pockmarked by little stab marks. In front of her is a dangerous idea. One that she should really think over more. But here she is, about to play a game that she’s certainly ill prepared for.

“Dorothea?” chimes in Petra’s voice, sitting across Dorothea.

The songstress shakes her head. Takes the knife. “So,” she says, “this is a game I saw some of the other soldiers playing.”

“Game?” echoes Petra.

“A game to test your bravery,” answers Dorothea.

Petra chuckles. “We are being in a war,” she says. “That is brave.”

“That’s true. So what harm could a little game be?” Dorothea realizes she’s dug her own grave. Where is she even going with this?

“Okay then. Please tell me how we are playing this game.” Petra sits up, smiling. Dorothea feels her stomach roll over. The sun seems brighter. The world is suddenly a better place. Dorothea’s resolve is bolstered.

She explains the “game.” Both “players” splay out a hand on the table. They each take a turn with the dagger. When it’s their turn, they stab at the spaces in between the digits. A fairly standard tavern game. The twist for this version, however, is that they’d take turns at stabbing in the spaces in between the other player’s hand. _And they must maintain eye contact while doing so_.

Petra nods along to Dorothea’s explanation. Finally, she says, “That is hardly sounding like a game that is worth playing.”

Dorothea chuckles to herself. Her plan is so far going well. “That’s what makes it a game of bravery,” she says, an air of confidence about her. She mentally pats herself on the back.

At this point, Dorothea thinks, Petra should decline, saying that it’s ridiculous and dangerous. Dorothea would huff and puff and take the knife and demonstrate how she can do it flawlessly. Petra would swoon. Dorothea’s not sure what the next step is. Bernadetta had fled the scene before the songstress could get any more romantic suggestions from the shy woman.

Dorothea does her best not to think about her desk in her room, riddled with tiny little stab marks. Or how she’s managed to improve her faith magic due to some… _unforeseen_ mishaps.

“I am understanding,” says Petra. “I shall be going first, then.”

“ _Oh, that’s too ba_ —” says Dorothea, stopping herself before speaking again. “Could you say that again?”

“The dagger please,” says Petra plainly. Her left hand is already splayed out on the table. Her right is reaching out for the blade.

_Oh no,_ thinks Dorothea, _this wasn’t part of the plan_. She mentally slaps herself. What is she doing? What is even the point of what she’s doing? She hands Petra the dagger. Splays out her left hand. Their middle digits touch on the table.

Belatedly, Dorothea realizes that the whole plan had hinged on Petra somehow backing down from a challenge.

“I am starting now,” says Petra. Her gaze is steely. She holds the knife above their hands. Dorothea does her best to focus on Petra’s eyes. Petra’s soft, lovely eyes. _At the very least_ , thinks Dorothea, somewhat stupidly, _at least I have an excuse to stare into Petra’s eyes._

_Tak. Tak. Tak. Tak. Tak._

Petra doesn’t break eye contact. Unflinching. Unafraid. Dorothea does her best to keep from looking down. She can feel the sweat gathering on the palm of her hand. She keeps her expression calm. _It’s like you’re on stage_ , she tells herself, _this is just a performance_. She can barely see the glint of the knife just out of her view. _A performance where I could lose a finger or two, that’s all._ As if sensing Dorothea’s thoughts, Petra picks up speed.

_Taktaktaktaktak._

“It is being your turn now,” Petra says, handing Dorothea the knife. The expression on Petra’s face is new. Something she’s never really seen on the woman. Dorothea grasps the knife, holds it over where she thinks Petra’s fingers are.

Petra. Kind, beautiful Petra. Someone who never failed to speak her mind. Who never balked in the face of adversity. Who saw the challenges unfurling before her, yet never once thought to surrender. Nothing at all like Dorothea.

Her hands are trembling. They’re trembling too much. Still looking Dorothea right in the eye, Petra’s other hand reaches up. Holds Dorothea’s in her own. Steadies the hand. Guides it, gently, gently. Presses down.

_Tak._

“Are you trusting of me, Dorothea?” Petra asks. She guides Dorothea’s hand up. Pushes it slightly to the left.

“Yes,” Dorothea answers, not resisting.

_Tak._

“Some people are thinking of me as if I am being helpless,” Petra says. Pushes Dorothea’s hand a little more.

_Tak_.

“And others are thinking of me as if I am being a threat.” Another gentle push.

_Tak._

“But when I am looking at you like this,” Petra says. She pauses. Dorothea’s hand is still trembling, but she can tell. Petra’s hand is shaking too. “I am feeling as if you are not seeing me in such a way.”

Dorothea’s eyes drift down, to Petra’s lips, mesmerized as they moved with her every word. They look soft. Warm. Inviting. Dorothea’s hands feel steadier. She moves the blade, Petra’s hand still holding hers.

_Tak._

“I am thinking that we are both hunters,” says Petra.

Her next movement is a flash. Dorothea barely reacts. A flick of the wrist, a flash of the blade. In an instant, Petra is standing, leaning over the table, towering over Dorothea. Her features are shadowed. Her expression hidden. Dorothea catches the scent of grass, dirt, iron. The scent of Petra. She’s so focused on the woman that she can barely feel the press of cold against the base of her throat.

The blade, pressed against her neck. Like ice, pressed against pale skin.

Dorothea doesn’t know what to say. So she stares up at the other woman.

“Why are you trusting of me?” Petra asks.

This isn’t an opera. There is no time to practice lines or go through dialogue. Dorothea wishes she could. Try one answer, rewind time, try another. Try again and again until she finds the perfect combination of words to finally win over the woman before her. Petra, the woman that smelled of the forest, with eyes that were almost too kind and lips that seem incredibly soft.

This is what Dorothea wants to do:

Take the knife and throw it aside. Reach out to cup Petra’s cheeks with her hands. Pull her in for a searing kiss. No words, no explanation. Words are useless to Dorothea now, not when all she can think about is Petra’s warm features, her tanned skin, her taut muscles. The woman she wishes were hers.

This is what Dorothea does:

Wrap her hand around Petra’s, still clasped tightly around the dagger’s handle. She says, “Of course, we are great friends, aren’t we?” because words are all she has. Her defense, her armor, her shield. There’s no way that Petra would ever see her in the same light. No way that her feelings could be returned. So Dorothea escapes to her words.

Petra sits back down. Her brows are furrowed. She’s frowning, deeply. She shakes her head, braided dark purple hair swishing behind her.

“Of course,” she says. She forces herself to smile. “I am apologizing. I should not have done that. It will not be happening again.”

Dorothea isn’t sure what to say back. She finds words at the back of her mind. They don’t ring true but she says them anyway. “It’s quite alright Petra. I guess I lost the game, huh?”

They both seem unhappy. Dorothea berates herself. The plan is a complete and utter failure. She sighs deeply. Petra stands, slowly.

“I will… Be taking leave now,” she says, stiffly. She’s looking away.

“Alright then,” says Dorothea, forcing herself to smile politely.

She watches Petra take a few steps away. Watches Petra’s back grow smaller and smaller, further and further away from Dorothea’s grasp. Part of her feels like eating the dagger and then the table and then the surrounding grass.

Petra stops. Marches back. Stands before Dorothea once again.

“Yes?” says Dorothea. “Did you forge — _mmph!_ ”

A kiss. Petra presses her lips against Dorothea’s. Forceful, yet gentle. Dorothea’s entire world goes blank. Nothing but the forest, dirt, steel. Nothing but the kind huntress. Nothing but the soft lips pressed against hers.

Petra pulls away. “Edelgard was being right. You are… as she was telling me, ‘quite dense.’”

Dorothea can’t help but laugh. “That’s rich,” she says, “coming from _Edie_ , of all people.”

Petra laughs too. “That is quite true,” she says.

They make eye contact. This time sure. This time unquestioning.

They kiss again.


	2. Edelgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for a bit of a description of an injury. Nothing too graphic, but putting this up here for those sensitive to such things!

Edelgard sneezes. A clean, white handkerchief is immediately handed to her.

“Thank you Ferdinand.” she says, taking the embroidered cloth Ferdinand is offering.

“Your majesty, perhaps you are feeling a chill? Maybe we should be heading inside again,” says Ferdinand.

“Or perhaps someone is speaking ill of her majesty,” Hubert darkly offers.

“How could anyone be speaking ill of her majesty?” asks Ferdinand.

“Are you daft?” goes Hubert. “Her majesty is fighting against a multitude of idiots that have nothing but their curses to keep them warm.”

“ _Hubert_ ,” says Ferdinand. “Why must you be bringing up such heavy matters like it is nothing?”

The two continue to squabble on. Edelgard looks up, at the sky. A clear day. Fluffy white clouds crawl lazily across the sky. The smell of dirt fills Edelgard’s lungs. Before her, in the training hall, the professor and Caspar continue to spar. The sound of metal against metal rings out, accompanied by Byleth’s occasional quips and Caspar’s frequent bellowing.

Behind Edelgard, Ferdinand and Hubert babble on about how best to attend to her needs. When did this happen? One day, Hubert had come up with a multitude of ways to assassinate Ferdinand, the next, they were off drinking coffee together in the gardens. As much as she appreciated Hubert’s loyalty and friendship, the man was _overbearing_ , to say the least.

“ _Please_ ,” says Ferdinand, “there is not a single compassionate bone in your body. I believe I am better suited to this task as I am quite simply more _sensitive_ to what her majesty may need.”

Now Edelgard feels like she has _two_ overbearing guardians.

From afar, she sees Caspar attempt to spin his training axe in his hands. The motion isn’t fluid. The momentum is off. It flies out of his hands. Clatters onto the dirt. He laughs, rubbing the back of his head.

“It’s so much cooler when her majesty emperor Edelgard does it!” he says, laughing. Byleth shakes her head.

“Like I told you before Caspar,” Edelgard shouts out, “you don’t have to say the entire title. ‘Her majesty’ is quite enough.”

“You don’t need to continue observing us Edelgard,” says Byleth.

“It’s quite alright,” says Edelgard with a wave of the hand, “I feel that it is important that I oversee the growth of my comrades.”

A half lie, at best. If Edelgard was being entirely honest, she was there to watch her professor swing her sword around for a few hours. But Edelgard isn’t entirely honest. So she tells herself that she’s there to be a good leader, forces herself to stop staring too much at her professor.

“How noble of her majesty,” says Ferdinand.

“Quite,” adds Hubert. “Although… I wonder which ‘comrade’ is her majesty’s favorite.” He chuckles.

Edelgard feels the tips of her ears go warm. She does her best to ignore Hubert’s remark. She focuses on the two in front of her. Mostly Byleth. _No,_ Edelgard tells herself, _Byleth and Caspar. Looking at two people right now._

“Well since you’re gonna be here, why doncha teach me how to do that axe spinny thing you do?” says Caspar.

Edelgard raises an eyebrow. She says, “Axe spinny thing? Why would I —”

“C’mon!” goads Caspar, “I bet the professor’s gonna think it’s suuuuuuper cool if you show me!”

“Caspar!” scolds Ferdinand. “You know her majesty strongly dislikes it when we tease her about the professor.”

Edelgard barely hears Hubert whisper under his breath, “Oh yes, let’s talk about this as if the professor’s not there.”

Edelgard feels like her ears are burning. She wonders where she went wrong. She can’t have been obvious about anything, could she? She’s excellent at hiding her feelings. At least, she tells herself this.

Byleth tilts her head to the side. “I don’t understand what I have to do with anything,” she says, “but it would be ‘suuuper cool’ if you could show us.”

Edelgard stands up immediately. Takes a few steps forward. She clears her throat. Feigns indifference. “Very well,” she says, “if you insist, I shall show you.”

Caspar, grinning ear to ear, hands her a training axe. Edelgard tests its heft, swings at the air a few times. She feels the weight of the professor’s gaze on her. She looks to the corner of her eye, sees the woman staring intently. Edelgard’s pulse skyrockets.

With ease, Edelgard spins the axe in her hand. One, two, and then she tucks it behind her, gripping the handle tightly. “There,” she says, “that’s all there is to it.”

Byleth claps politely. “I’ve seen that you do that in battle all the time, but seeing you do it with such ease is really impressive.” Edelgard’s insides feel a hundred times warmer.

“You must be really good with your hands,” Byleth adds.

Edelgard’s insides feel too warm now. She blushes a furious shade of red. Behind them, Hubert breaks into a coughing fit. Caspar whistles low.

“Did I say something weird?” Byleth asks, brows furrowed.

“Oh, quite the contrary, professor!” shouts Ferdinand, rubbing the still coughing Hubert’s back. “If anything, you should certainly praise her majesty more.”

They were doing this on purpose, Edelgard decides. She makes a silent promise to herself to come up with a way to get back at them for all this.

“Ooooh,” goes Caspar. “If you really wanna —” he clears his throat, “— s _how the professor how good you are with your hands...”_ He winks exaggeratedly. “You should totally show her that super cool spinny thing you did when you crushed Sylvain’s ribs that one time.”

Edegard groans. Not that again. A training exercise, years ago, back when they were still students. Sylvain had said something incredibly improper about the professor to bait Edelgard into breaking out of position. Thankfully, the professor was out of earshot. But the taunt had worked, and Edelgard had come charging down, breaking five of Sylvain’s ribs in one blow. She had spun her axe triumphantly then, glaring down at the man.

“What’s that about?” asks Byleth.

“Oh, you know,” answers Caspar, “that time when Sylvain taunted Edelgard to break out of formation by… uh…” Caspar blushes. He looks at the ground. “Anyway, that part’s unimportant. Just show us the axe spinning your majesty!”

(Sylvain had shouted “ _Hey Edelgard, you think Professor McTiddies is gonna want me in her class after I wipe the floor with your face?_ ”)

Edelgard feels her blood boil at the memory. Gripping the axe tighter, she says, “Sure, I’ll show you.”

“Your majesty, are you sure about this? It has been quite a few years since you last did that maneuver,” Ferdinand shouts from afar.

Edelgard shoots him an angry glance. Hubert, regaining his composure, puts a hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder. Shrugs.

Edelgard straightens her back, rolls her shoulders, wrists. Byleth and Caspar take a few steps back. How did this go again? Edelgard tries to remember. She’s supposed to spin the axe, one, two, and three, then she tosses it in the air. Then she’s going to catch it, tip pointed down. Nervousness begins to bubble at the pit of her stomach. She steels herself. The professor is watching.

It starts out slow, and she builds up speed. The axe moves deftly in her hand. It spins. One, two, and three. With a practiced flourish, she tosses it into the air. It spins majestically, the blade glinting in the sunlight. _Ah shit,_ she thinks, as the light reflected off of the blade’s surface blinds her.

Dumbly, and mostly because she doesn’t want the professor to ever see her fail at anything, Edelgard reaches out. She attempts to catch the axe.

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

Instead, the hilt of the axe comes down hard, her pinky finger getting caught awkwardly as it lodges itself between her smallest finger and ring finger. She tries to grasp it, but the momentum of the axe head pulls her fingers in an awful direction. She feels it, almost in slow motion. The rest of her fingers grasping at nothing while her pinky, caught on the handle, goes _pop_ right out of its joint. The axe falls to the ground, the edge embedding itself right on her boot. Her pinky goes _pop_ right back into place.

_Oh my fucking god,_ she thinks, _that fucking hurts_.

But she stands there, staring at her hand, trembling. A sharp, searing pain starts pulsing, reaching all the way to her elbow. She forces herself not to react. Not to scream. She can barely even feel the blade buried in her foot.

No one says anything. They gape, open mouthed, as Edelgard does nothing but stand there, blood dampening her boot and hand still shaking.

“Edelgard, are you okay?” asks Byleth. “You’re uh, bleeding.”

“ _I’m fine professor_ ,” Edelgard manages through gritted teeth.

“Are you —”

“ _I said I’m fine, professor_.”

Byleth reaches down, one hand on the training axe’s handle, the other on her foot. “I’ll pull it out, and then heal you, okay?”

Edelgard nods.

Byleth moves quickly and deftly. Pull, and then a pulse of warmth. Edelgard takes a sharp breath, hissing through her teeth. The professor rises to her feet. “May I?” she says.

Edelgard offers her injured hand. Byleth takes it in hers. Warm, healing magic. Soft to the touch. The pain subsides. Edelgard can’t help it. She looks into Byleth’s eyes. They look back into hers. Edelgard feels almost like she’s drowning.

“I still think it’s quite impressive,” says Byleth. “Anything you do is impressive to me, Edelgard.”

Caspar clears his throat. “Uh, we’re still here, you guys.”

Edelgard vows to maybe crush all of Caspar’s ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I really like writing Edelgard Content.

**Author's Note:**

> A little short sumthin sumthin while I come up with an ending for Slow Burning. 
> 
> Say hello on twitter via @IronShiba!
> 
> (Sorry if I don't really reply to the comments here that often. I get... shy? hehe. I'm honestly not used to people saying nice things to me. I read every single one and each fills me with determination!! So thank you, everyone. :) )


End file.
